


take a picture (it'll last longer)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-Canon, sort of lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little piece pops up on the top of the strange object, giving off a weak flash of light — nothing more than a spark, really — and then fizzling out into darkness.</p><p>Not much of a weapon, he thinks bemusedly.</p><p>"Bellamy," Clarke says, full of awe. She turns to him, eyes alight in the fluorescent glow of the lamp. "You just found a <i>Polaroid</i>."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Bellamy finds a camera, and Clarke gets a new toy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take a picture (it'll last longer)

**Author's Note:**

> [CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW BLESSED WE ARE](https://twitter.com/The100writers/status/760643164461871105)
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> *sighs* what a good week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Today everything exists to end in a photograph.”_

**— Susan Sontag**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They find it in an abandoned bunker, about three days' journey from Arkadia.

 

“What _is_ this,” Bellamy wonders aloud, turning it over in his hands.

 

Clarke sets her pack down, moving a few steps over for a closer look. Her brows shoot up at the oddly-shaped object he’s holding.

 

“No way,” she breathes, reaching over his arm to brush her fingers across the smooth sides of the object.

 

Bellamy shifts the item over so it’s between them — easier for her to reach. “You know what it is?” he asks. His tone is only _slightly_ skeptical. Clarke was, after all, Pike’s favourite Earth Skills student.

 

“I think so,” she says, a note of reverence in her voice. She gently lifts the object out of his light grasp, the pads of her fingers roving over it. “I mean, I’ve seen it in books once or twice, but—”

 

Her index finger finds a little circle on one of the smaller sides, and it depresses under her touch with a slight click.

 

Suddenly, there’s a faint whirring sound, making them both jump ever so slightly as they watch a little panel on the broad side of the object move, and then split apart and slide back into the sides of the hole it creates. From that hole, a small half-sphere rises — some kind of glass, they both realise, from the way it reflects the light of the small electric lamp Bellamy’s left on the shelf in front of them.

 

“I think it _is_ ,” Clarke says, her voice suddenly charged with excitement.

 

“Is _what_ ,” Bellamy asks sharply, regarding the object with a frown. He’s not _alarmed_ , not really, but there are all manner of dangerous weapons hidden in bunkers like this. Should Clarke _really_ be activating something neither of them actually know how to operate?

 

Instead of answering, Clarke lifts the object, pointing the protruding half-sphere of glass at the lit-up shelf, and presses another button — a larger one, lower down on the object than the first one.

 

There’s a louder click, and more whirring — but it’s still faint, and that’s not what grabs his attention.

 

It’s the little piece that pops up on the top of the object, giving off a weak flash of light — nothing more than a spark, really — and then fizzling out into darkness.

 

Not much of a weapon, he thinks bemusedly.

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, full of awe. She turns to him, eyes alight in the fluorescent glow of the lamp. “You just found a _Polaroid_.”

 

He stares at her.

 

“A what now?” he says after a few moments of wracking his brain. He’s _pretty_ sure he’s never even _heard_ the word before.

 

“It’s a camera,” Clarke explains, bringing the object to her face for a closer examination. “From before.”

 

He pushes down the discomforting urge to warn her to maintain a safe distance from it. From what little he knows about analogue cameras, the thing in Clarke’s hands doesn’t seem to be working properly.

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says slowly, watching her inspect every inch of her new toy with unabashed delight, “but aren’t cameras supposed to make photographs? Pictures, or something?”

 

She briefly tears her eyes away from the Polaroid to roll them in his direction. “This _does_ make pictures. Just not the same way ours do.” She taps a thin slot on the bottom. “See? This is where the pictures come out from.”

  
“This thing takes photos, _and_ prints them out?” he asks dubiously. They only ever had one or two printers on the Ark — and even then, neither had been working for the last fifty years. Everything in space was digital.

 

Even so, he vaguely remembers both those printers being _much_ larger than just _palm-sized_.

 

Clarke nods, her lips curving in a rare grin. “ _Instantly_ , too,” she says, experimentally pushing the little piece back down into the body of the device — the one that sparked. She straightens, turning away from him. “We’re saving this.”

 

He watches her stow the camera in her pack, still wearing that wide smile. She probably doesn’t even realise she’s still doing it.

 

“Okay,” he says mildly, turning back to the shelf to continue searching it for supplies. “Whatever you want, Clarke.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I don’t _do_ cameras,” Raven announces, not looking up from the broken radiator on her worktable. “I don’t _know_ how that shit works, Clarke. I need to know how shit works if I’m gonna _fix_ it.” She casts a quick glare in the blonde’s direction. “Kind of the basic requirement of my job.”

 

“Come on, Raven,” Clarke argues, leaning over the table. “It’s really just another machine. Pull up files from the Ark database, find something similar, and work from there. You’re Raven _fucking_ Reyes, you can fix _anything_.”

 

Bellamy watches her, half amused at her eagerness. He’s never seen Clarke _eager_. She’s insistent, stubborn, demanding.

 

Never _eager_.

 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Well, how am I even going to test it to see if it works? Old cameras like this work on _film_ , Clarke.” She spreads her hands around her worktable, cluttered with metal parts and stray bits of wire and screwdrivers. “Do I _look_ like I’ve _got_ film?”

 

Clarke places a small oilskin packet on the table, unrolling it carefully to reveal two small cardboard boxes. The design’s completely worn off, but it’s still distinctly green. “Good thing there _was_ some film left in the bunker, then,” she says, smiling triumphantly.

 

Raven sighs, her gaze sliding over to Bellamy.

 

He instantly holds up his hands. “Don’t look at _me_.”

 

“You _found_ the damn thing,” she mutters accusatorily, shaking her head as she turns back to Clarke. “Fine, whatever. Just leave it here.”

 

“Thank you, Raven,” Clarke exclaims, bouncing on the balls of her feet in animated excitement. “Thank you, thank you so—”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Raven says, carelessly waving a wrench at her before pointing it in her face, with a hard look. “No badgering me about it though, okay? I’ve got an actual _job_ to do here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

 

“Take as much time as you need,” Clarke tells her with a wide smile.

 

Bellamy puts out a hand, letting his fingers curl around her elbow. “We’ll let you get back to it now,” he says wryly to Raven, with a gentle tug on Clarke’s arm.

 

“Yeah, you two get back to saving the world,” Raven calls after them as they duck out of her workshop.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A week later, Raven appears after their meeting with Kane and Abby.

 

(They’re still wary of the word ‘Council’, but for now, it’s the four of them talking things out and making decisions together, and Bellamy feels like it’s the most positive work he’s been doing in all his months on the ground.)

 

“It took me a while to get the thing going again,” Raven says as she leads the way into her workshop. “A lot of the parts were just way too old to hold up, so I had to replace them with substitutes or just make new ones. That flash, by the way,” she says over her shoulder. “That was a real fuckin’ bitch.”

 

Bellamy quirks a brow at the mechanic’s back as she makes a beeline for her worktable. “Yeah, fuck Mount Weather, and fuck ALIE. That flash is the real deal.”

 

“I made a new bulb from scratch and tweaked the pop-up mechanism,” Raven continues, pointedly raising her voice a little louder as she rummages through the items on her table. “Nothing I can do about the lens, though. It works fine still, but upgrading that thing is way beyond me or Monty.”

 

“Monty?” Bellamy asks as he and Clarke move to stand around the table with Raven as she takes up the Polaroid.

 

The brunette turns it over in her hands, giving it a cursory inspection before handing it over to Clarke, who immediately starts to examine it with renewed delight. “Yeah, I wasn’t gonna mess around with that film without him. That shit is _delicate_ , and I need someone to share the blame with if I lost it all by accident, y’know.” She pulls over a small box, flicking the plastic clasp open. “Someone up there must like us, because we actually managed to duplicate that shit a few times over. Boom. Extra film.”

 

“Raven,” Clarke says, shaking her head slowly, clearly a little overwhelmed. “This is— I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Say thanks,” Raven suggests with a lopsided grin. “Also, you can consider this your birthday present from both of us.” She waves a hand. “Like, three months late. Or was it four?” She wrinkles her nose. “Whatever, happy fuckin’ birthday, alright?”

 

Clarke grins, reaching out with one arm to pull the mechanic into an impulsive hug. “Thank you. And thank Monty for me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven says, tone flippant despite the warm glow of happiness on her face as she readily returns the hug. Pulling back, she gestures at the camera in Clarke’s other hand. “Go ’head, try it out.”

 

Clarke pauses, looking down at the table as if wondering what to do.

 

Before Bellamy can react, she turns to him, lifts the camera to her eye, and hits the button, the larger one on the front.

 

There’s a blinding flash of light, and he has to blink several time to clear the spots from his eyes.

 

“Flash works,” Raven observes mildly. “Now we just have to— ah, there we go.”

 

A small, flat rectangle slides out from the bottom slot of the camera.

 

Bellamy blinks at it, confused. “It’s blank.”

 

“It’s _developing_ ,” Raven corrects with a grin. “Give it a sec.”

 

Bellamy watches for a few seconds more, still unable to see anything other than milky white on the rectangle.

 

He’s about to make another dry crack regarding the camera’s impressive functionality when Clarke draws a sudden, sharp breath.

 

He stares, disbelieving, as shapes and colours start to form on the rectangle.

 

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

 

It’s— it’s _his_ _face_.

 

It’s his cheekbones and jawline, edges outlined in stark contrast thanks to the proximity of the flash.

 

It’s his eyes, looking ever so slightly puzzled, one brow slanted just a little higher than the other in expectation.

 

It’s his nose, the freckles splashed across it still visible even in the harsh light.

 

It’s his mouth, and— oh, God, is _that_ what his hair looks like?

 

(He hasn’t had a chance to look at a mirror in at least forty-eight hours, okay? Earth is _literally_ melting down. He has better things to worry about than what he _looks_ like.)

 

“Good face, Blake,” Raven quips, peering down at the small photo in Clarke’s hand.

 

“I wasn’t _ready_ ,” he mutters under his breath, suddenly terribly more self-conscious than he can remember feeling in _forever_. He’s still caught up with staring at his own face, but it’s the magic of the camera that has him really mesmerised. It was so _quick_.

 

Clarke nudges an elbow into his rib. “It’s still a good face,” she teases, all warm and affectionate.

 

He shifts a little, suddenly aware of how close he’s been pressing into her for a better look at the picture. Thankfully, he’s saved from having to come up with a minimally awkward reply when Raven pushes the small box over.

 

“Here’s your extra film,” she announces. “I’ll show you how to load it up when you’ve got a few minutes free. It’s six to a stack, so there’s five left in there,” she says, jabbing a thumb at the Polaroid in Clarke’s hands.

 

“Five more of these?” Clarke asks excitedly, eyes bright.

 

Raven grins, propping a hand on her hip and waving the other towards the door. “Go nuts.”

 

 

 

 

Bellamy can’t help himself; he follows Clarke around as she roams around camp for the next twenty minutes, taking her time to choose things to take pictures of.

 

It’s more to do with the intriguement of having a new toy to play with, he tells himself as she points at various plants in one of the crop gardens, chattering on and on about colours and angles.

 

It’s nothing much to do with the way Clarke’s hair falls into her face every time she turns her head to look at this and that, and the way her eyes are shining with a special sort of _thrill_. It’s new, and it’s strangely _pure_ , and it’s something he can’t quite remember ever seeing in those clear blue depths.

 

It’s _definitely_ nothing much to do with his sudden awareness of a fierce desire within him — a desire to do anything in his power to protect that light, and to make sure it never goes out again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clarke and the Polaroid quickly become inseparable.

 

The camera spends meetings with Abby and Kane resting on the corner of a spread-out map, or on top of her discarded jacket when it’s hot out.

 

It’s sitting under her right hand during mealtimes, while her left hand works on feeding herself.

 

It’s in her pack when they go out on herb-collecting trips, her stopping in her tracks to dig it out whenever she spots something she wants to photograph.

 

She’s almost never without it, and he’s pretty sure she’s even taken it along with her on her last visit to the showers. (He's _pretty_ sure. Raven’s not an entirely reliable source.)

 

Nevertheless, for a good ninety percent of the day, the little camera is all but glued to her hand.

 

“Shut up,” she says primly when he calls her out on it on day three, brushing a stray lock of blonde out of her face. “ _You_ of all people don’t get to mock me for this.”

 

He pauses mid-laugh, brows furrowing in confusion. “Sorry, why _me_ of all people?”

 

She rolls her eyes and starts past him, reaching out to tap two fingers on his holster as she moves. “You have your _guns_. I have my camera.”

 

She’s several feet away by the time he finally recovers from how unexpectedly _intimate_ the simple gesture had felt, her fingers brushing across his thigh.

 

He blinks, an idea forming in his head.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

“Thank God,” he says dryly when she shows up at the gate four days later. “I was worried I’d have to collect all that fern stuff on my own.”

 

She rolls her eyes, slightly out of breath from her rushed pace. “I got held up by my mom. Tomorrow’s meeting with the Ice Nation delegates is making her extra paranoid.”

 

He waves at Bryan, who’s stationed up in the watchtower. “I’m more than capable of carrying it all on my own, Clarke.”

 

Receiving a thumbs-up from the boy, Bellamy signals the other guards on duty to open the gate.

 

Clarke huffs, adjusting her pack on her shoulder to double-check in case of a forgotten something. “I’m not worried about you _carrying_ it, I’m worried about you _finding_ it. We don’t need another close shave with poison ivy.”

 

“I know what poison ivy looks like,” he scoffs as they walk out of camp.

 

“I know,” Clarke retorts. “I’m talking about you calling the Athyrium filix-femina plant _‘that fern stuff’_.”

 

“It’s a _fern_ ,” he says placidly. “Quit showing off.”

 

 

 

 

They’re in the woods barely ten minutes when it happens again.

 

He makes a show of sighing heavily when he sees Clarke stop to swing her pack around again.

 

“Are we really going to do that every single time you want to get a photo of something?” he asks, making sure to infuse a note of lazy annoyance in his voice.

 

“ _You_ aren’t doing anything,” she points out, fishing her Polaroid out of her bag with some effort. “ _You_ just have to stand there for all of two minutes.”

 

“Try _five_ ,” he grumbles, but they both know there’s no real heat to it. She pokes her tongue out at him in cheeky defiance, and turns away, camera in hand.

 

He watches her crouch over a small cluster of mushrooms, unable to stop his lips from curving upward in a soft smile. She spends ages framing countless shots, but she rarely ever actually _snaps_ any.

 

Raven and Monty made her as much film as they could, but it’s still a first attempt, so they emphasised that there might be a few duds. They’d estimated that Clarke would have enough for thirty or so pictures, _“maybe forty if you don’t screw up with loading ’em in,”_ as Raven had cheerfully added. Even combined with the original film from the bunker, it’s not much.

 

With that in mind, Clarke tries to keep it to two or three a day — at least until the two geniuses can find the time to make more. (It’s not easy. Time’s the one resource they seem to be running out of quicker than anything.)

 

Sometimes she even goes for a fourth, but it’s usually unplanned. Like when inspiration suddenly strikes her, her entire face lighting up with it. Or when something makes her laugh, or makes her entire face melt into thoughtfulness.

 

He loves it whenever she goes for a fourth.

 

She rises to her feet after a couple of minutes, not bothering to brush the dirt off her jeans from where she’d been kneeling in the dirt. “All done,” she announces with an easy grin, holding up the piece of developing film with one hand.

 

He clears his throat pointedly when she shunts her bag back over her shoulder to replace the camera.

 

At her questioning glance, he holds out an item — one he’d retrieved from his own pack while she’d been preoccupied with the mushrooms. “Uh, here.”

 

She stares at his outstretched hand.

 

He shifts on his feet awkwardly. “I just thought— instead of, you know, slinging your pack back and forth all the time, you could just carry the thing in—” He pauses, unsure of what her persisting silence is supposed to mean. He shrugs, turning the object over with a careless flick of his wrist. “I don’t— I just figured it’d be easier. For you.”

 

Finally, Clarke moves — one hand reaching out slowly to take the soft leather pouch clasped in his. “You… made me a bag.” She glances up at him. “For my camera.”

 

He shrugs again, casting around and trying to make it look like he’s keeping track of their surroundings. “Like I said, it’s just easier. You can just, you know, carry your camera outside your pack, but still have your hands free and—” He breaks off, and starts to wave his hands about jerkily and _extremely_ nervously. “Look, you don’t have to _use_ it or anything—”

 

Clarke flinches suddenly, pressing the pouch to her chest as if protecting it from his gesturing hands. “I _want_ to.”

 

He pauses mid-flail, his gaze snapping to her face. “You want to?”

 

“Yes,” she says, firmly and definitely a little bit louder. She blinks, the line of her shoulders softening slightly. “I love it, Bellamy. I really do.”

 

He can tell that she’s surprised, and grateful, of course, but something about her expression nags at him. It’s like she seems almost _pained_ , for some reason.

 

His train of thought is cut off by a pair of arms encircling his neck, and blonde hair tickling at his nose.

 

“Thank you,” Clarke breathes into the skin stretched over the juncture between his neck and shoulder, her arms tightening around him.

 

It takes half a beat, but his arms go around her, engulfing her frame and pulling her body even more fully up against his.

 

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly, after allowing himself to bury his nose in her hair for a few long moments.

 

He tries not to spend the rest of the trip looking at the small leather pouch dangling at her side, the camera nesting inside of it bumping comfortably against her hip from the thin but sturdy strap draped over her shoulder and across her body.

 

He’s not nearly as successful as he’d like to be.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Five days later, they’re standing at the gate again.

 

“Remember, you radio in every six hours,” Abby says once she releases her daughter from a tight embrace. “More if you can manage it.”

 

“More if we _need_ it,” Clarke corrects with a gentle smile, taking her mother’s hand to give it a squeeze. “Same goes for you.” She glances at Kane as he comes up beside Abby. “If you need _anything_ , at all.”

 

“We will,” he says, resting a comforting hand on Clarke’s shoulder. His gaze slides over to Bellamy as he appears at the blonde’s side. “Take care of yourselves, all right?”

 

Clarke nods, slipping a hand into her pocket to retrieve two pictures. One is a few days old, of Abby and Clarke posing together, smiling at the camera. The other is from the day before. It’s Bellamy and Kane, standing side by side in the old Chancellor’s office, both with their arms crossed and laughing over something.

 

She presses the photographs into Kane’s hand, offering up a reassuring smile to the two adults in front of her. “May we meet again,” she says, making sure to keep her voice steady.

 

“May we meet again,” Bellamy echoes, nodding firmly.

 

As the two former Chancellors echo the farewell, he finds himself blinking back against wet heat pricking at his eyes. All four of them have been spending the last ten minutes saying their goodbyes, but this one hurts a lot more than he thought it would. He hopes, prays, wishes that it won’t be the last time they find themselves standing here.

 

As the other two move away, Clarke clutches suddenly at his arm.

 

“Hey,” she says abruptly, tugging him sideways. “I need you.”

 

He falls into step with her half-bemusedly, slightly distracted by the sudden change in her demeanour. “You know we’re leading the same mission team, right? You don’t have to talk me into helping.”

 

She rolls her eyes, coming to a stop a good distance from the rover. “I want a _picture_ , Bellamy.”

 

He raises a brow as she waves to the side. Monty nods, and starts to jog over to them. “We’re kind of stuck together the next few weeks, princess. Plenty of photo ops to be had, I think.”

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely realises that they’re standing in the same spot where they’d first found each other again, days after blowing up the dropship.

 

She grins, drawing her camera out of the little bag he’d made her. “I want a photo of us like _this_ , you uncooperative asshat.”

 

“Clean and non-bloody?” he supplies as Monty reaches them, taking the Polaroid from Clarke.

 

She rolls her eyes again, stepping into his side and slipping her arm around his waist. “ _No_. Just… home.”

 

He pauses, looking down at her in surprise.

 

“You guys ready?” Monty calls from a few feet away, camera held up in front of him.

 

Bellamy startles, and moves to return Clarke’s half-embrace — and he suddenly realises that his arm is already wrapped around her shoulders.

 

“Ready,” Clarke calls back, fingers digging into his side to turn him to face the camera.

 

“Okay,” Monty announces. “One, two, and — _smile_!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

The picture turns out rather well, if he does say so himself.

 

They’re wearing matching smiles — Clarke’s is wide and bright, and his is a little sheepish, but every bit as wide as hers. She’s comfortably tucked under his arm, her frame fitting into his perfectly.

 

Clarke spends the first fifteen minutes of the drive sneaking long looks at it, and then carefully tucks it into the small leather bag, along with her camera.

 

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, and turns back to the road ahead.

 

This time, his smile is completely beyond control.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, a quick kudos or comment would go a long way to letting me know =) 
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> if you're like me and have been ESPECIALLY enjoying the social media shenanigans of the last few days, might i be so bold as to recommend my [Ice Mechanic social media au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7656271) re: the ice cream vs snowflake emoji dispute. it's plenty of fun (and also i am team snowflake all the way).
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> come hold me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


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